Monday, 1 February 2010
My five year old is very manly. I've already told you how the girls love to chase him! He is gorgeous (as is my beautiful girl btw.) He roars sometimes and I imagine the testosterone coursing through his body. He's terribly young too and still has a baby's bottle of milk every night while insisting that I pat him gently. The patting came from nursery, where lovely nursery maids had the time to pat their little charges to sleep, never mindful of mothers who, years later, might want to read a book, pick up every toy in the sitting room or shave their legs over the course of an evening.....deep breath....sorry I digress.
Boy's new manlyism is to insist on using the male toilets when we are out and about. You can picture the scene, we are on a huge family outing to the B&Q Depot 30 miles away (hey, that is not true the kids love the DIY store visits on a Sunday, the skiddy floors are brilliant....) anyway the children start jiggling about, you say; ' Do you need to go to the toilet?' They say 'No.' You march them there anyway and they do an excellent impression of Niagara Falls. Well, this Sunday I ushered them to the loos, (which incidentally were falling apart, with broken seats and drippy taps - NOT A PARTICULARLY GREAT ADVERT FOR THE DIY STORE REALLY,) when I notice that the boy has veered off to the men's, desperate to pee against a wall.
I tried to stop him, petrified that he might meet someone unsavoury without me to Jackie Chan them out of the way, but he is resolute. 'I am a boy. I'm not allowed in the girl's toilets.' He is little and brave and I am going to have to plan ahead sneakily....in future I will encourage him pee on my car tyres in the car park. Gosh, I used to dispise mothers like me...
It's a bit like the ice cream van, although I've no issue now as we live so far from civilization. These vans cruise housing estates playing Greensleeves on a jack-in-the-box, seeking out sweet-toothed customers. My mother always told my sister, brother and I that the ice cream in those vans was made from minced rats. We NEVER asked for one again. In our previous house, in the Oxfordshire village, with village green and a quaint church that was built around the year 1160, I occasionally heard the chimes of the van from the garden. Before I was questioned by the sproglets I would hark my hand to an ear, look nostalgic and murmur 'Ah, listen to those lovely church bells...' I know, I KNOW..believe me I know. I know because I'm a lapsed Catholic and I am fully aware that big fat liar's pants are red hot and that I'm going straight to hell! See you there.